


Offerings

by FayJay



Category: Death Note
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-05
Updated: 2009-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mello can't stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Offerings

Mello's packing is quick, violent and unmethodical, but it is effective. As he wrenches open drawers and tears out their contents he is turning over ideas in his head, leafing through possible futures. His heartbeat feels unnaturally fast, unnaturally loud, and his tongue still burns from when he threw up a little in his mouth. Outside the sky is the colour of pewter and the English rain slams down with equal ferocity onto stone and glass and earth and flesh, impersonal and inescapable.

L is dead.

His fingers tighten convulsively, crushing the bundled-up fabric he holds as though he had Kira's throat in his grasp and could somehow stop him before – before.

But L is dead, just like Mello's parents, because the world is just that treacherous and fucked up. He shoves the shirt deep into his bag, swinging his head around the room and considering what else he should take with him. Seizes a spare pair of socks, slides a wicked knife out from underneath his mattress, drums his fingers on the cover of a book in time with his pulse. L is dead. And if L had named Mello as his successor, then maybe that would be bearable, but – no.

What on earth can have possessed Roger, suggesting that they work together? I mean, hello? Surely even a village idiot's mentally challenged pet hamster would have been able to work out that this was an idea of such monumental stupidity that all other stupid ideas would bow down and declare it their king? 'Mello is a brilliant firebrand who has issues with authority and a passionate addiction to chocolate that is second only to his passionate addiction to genius detectives too damn old to notice he exists. Near is an infantile robot with the charm and personality of a pair of old socks and a brain the size of a small Caribbean island. Together they fight crime.' He could spit. “I do NOT. Fucking. Think so,” he mutters, still incandescent with rage.

Goose feathers puff up into the quiet air and Mello glances down in vague surprise to see his pale fingers wrapped around the handle of the knife that is now buried deep in a perfectly inoffensive pillow. He sneezes, coughs up a feather, and wipes his watering eyes. His legs feel like jelly all of a sudden, and as he slides the knife back into its sheath and tucks it into his bag Mello knows he is on the verge of laughing, or crying, or disemboweling something.

A light tap on the door heralds Near's arrival, and for a moment Mello really thinks he might go with disemboweling. It wouldn't do much to solve his problems, but, my God, it might just be worth it.

But of course, it wouldn't be worth it. And he doesn't want to kill Near, anyway – he wants to beat the impassive little shit, which is much more difficult. Mello sighs, and continues packing. “What?” he snarls at last, when Near still hasn't spoken up and Mello still hasn't looked at him.

“I think you should stay,” says Near. And that does make him turn, because it's the last thing in the world he was expecting to hear. He stares. Near stares back. Unsurprisingly, Near is sitting on the carpet in that ridiculous how-do-my-legs-work-again pose of his. Also unsurprisingly he is clutching a couple of toys better suited to a younger child: two small robots.

“What?” Mello says again, which isn't exactly his quippiest quip, but it's been a rather stressful day and really, what the hell is Near playing at? “You think what?”

“I think that each of us possesses qualities the other one lacks,” says Near, folding bright plastic joints neatly into slots until the two robots become one ungainly object that no longer resembles anything in particular. “We are both quite young to take on this responsibility, Mello, and although I have confidence in my deductive reasoning skills – and in yours – it would be foolish to underestimate Kira.” Mello watches Near's fingers dancing over the mishmash of glinting parts, torn between vague curiosity to see what they will turn into and a rather powerful impulse to tear the toys out of Near's soft little hands and destroy them while he watches. Maybe that would be enough to drag a spark of emotion out of the little bastard, since L's death was apparently just not serious enough to merit any feelings. “He defeated L,” adds Near quietly, and Mello flinches. For a moment the only sound, other than the rain, is the gentle click-click-clack as Near transforms the unpromising little mechanical chrysalis of toys into something new: a single, slender, futuristic jet with a serious silver face and some impressive looking weaponry. “I think we're stronger together,” says Near.

Mello rolls his eyes. “Sweet Jesus. Thank you so much for that little display of subtlety, Near. Suddenly I find myself having a change of heart, and realising how much I want to work at your side. Let's team up and make the world a better place – together! You and me! To honour L's memory!” Near blinks up at him, one hand lifting the jet into the air with a vague swooping motion. And, really, Near is too bloody old for this crap – puzzles and teddy bears and lego. Life isn't just a game, whatever Near might think. “Or, you know, you could just fuck off and leave me alone,” concludes Mello, savagely – and it is all he can do to refrain from kicking Near in the face. “Does that work for you? Because I have to say, it really really works for me. Good bye.”

“Mello...”

“Am I being too opaque for the great detective? So long. Farewell. Auf weidersein. Adieu. Hit the road, Jack. Bugger off. Don't let the door hit you on the way out.” His voice drops a notch, becomes more of a threat. “Get. The fuck. Out of my room.” Near looks up at him through disordered pale hair, for all the world like a sad puppy, and gently places the jet on the carpet at Mello's feet. “Now,” says Mello softly, and he is now only seconds away from doing something – he isn't at all sure what, but something momentous, something un-take-back-able. Something unforgivable.

“Good luck, then,” says Near, turning and slouching out of the room before Mello can do whatever it is that he's on the brink of doing. He leaves the jet behind him. Mello stares at it, vibrating with anger, and then kicks it across the room. It makes a sad little crunching sound as it smashes into the wall and delicate parts snap forever.

“I won't need luck, you little freak!” shouts Mello. And all his dignity and cool has apparently left the building, because now he's standing in the middle of the corridor screaming at Near's back. “I'll find him! I'll find him first, Near, and make him pay! I'll be the one to get him! For L!”

Near doesn't look back. And, for a blessing, none of the other doors open.

After a moment Mello stomps back into his room, still vibrating with anger, and resumes his packing.

What he doesn't say, even to himself, even in his own head, is that he knows pity when he sees it. And he might have accepted pity when he was knee high to a grasshopper, when he was small and lost and suddenly, terrifyingly alone in the world – but he is damned if he will ever accept it again. Mello can look out for himself. He knows how to handle guns and knives, how to rig explosives, how to hack into a security system. He knows how to scale a building, how to bluff his way into places he's not allowed, how to charm chocolate out of the most stiff-necked and misanthropic of teachers. And, more than that, Mello is a certifiable genius – at fourteen he has a dozen 'A' levels under his belt, has successfully solved crimes that left Scotland Yard baffled, has proven himself again and again against all the other little geniuses here at Wammy's House.

All but one.

Because Near, damn his cold little heart, is just. That. Good. And before he arrived at Wammy's House, Mello had been the golden boy, the obvious choice for L's successor. Mello had been the brightest and the best, the one who sometimes got to skip lessons and hang out with L and Roger, and chime in when they discussed cases. Mello had been Number One.

Had been.

And now...now Near is Number One, and Mello is just a has-been. Second best. No matter how hard he tries – and he has upped his game, has pushed himself to the limits – he never does manage to beat the little bastard. Not that Near always beats him – they are neck and neck more often than not, tying and vying for first place in test after test. But sometimes – too often, far too often – Near will scrape ahead. And he doesn't boast, doesn't gloat, doesn't do a damn thing to rub Mello's nose in his failures. In fact he's always NICE about it, always polite and friendly, in his strange, distant fashion. And every bloody time it makes Mello want to grab a double handful of that fair hair and shake the little fucker until his teeth rattle. And then push him in front of a speeding car.

If it had been up to L...if L had named one of them, then it might have been Mello. Because, yes, on paper Near is God's gift to test results, but in person – well. Near has all the passion and personality of a wet sponge, and surely that has to count for something? So Mello had been hoping, had been praying...but it's too late now.

Fuck.

L is _dead_.

Mello kicks his bag with a viciousness as sudden as it is futile, and then sinks to his knees on the carpet and lets himself, just this once, just this last time, give in to a furious storm of tears.

And perhaps it is the sound of the rain, perhaps it is the fact that his eyes are still stinging with tears, but suddenly he remembers the confusion and dread he had felt on that very first day in Wammy's House, surrounded by tall strangers all jabbering away in English. It had been raining that day too, as he stood in Roger's study in his little red windbreaker, his face still wet with rain and tears and his heart pounding. He had felt furious and horribly vulnerable and alone, and he had resented his parents for dying. They were supposed to keep him safe. They were supposed to be there for him forever. And instead they had left him to be tested and poked and prodded by strangers, to be questioned and watched and bundled onto a series of aeroplanes and into a series of cars, until he finally ended up in this strange place with several unfamiliar grown-ups talking excitedly about him as if he were some kind of doll.

And the only person to actually look at him was L. Who, Mello realises with a sudden shock, must have been around the same age that Mello is now – at the time he had seemed terribly big and old, even though he was sitting barefoot on the carpet with his bony knees tucked under his chin, but Mello had been five years old at the time – so L must have only been fifteen or so himself when he cocked his head to one side, studied the furious little cherub Wammy had just accepted into the orphanage, and solemnly offered the child a piece of his chocolate. Not all of it, mind you. Just a piece. And he hadn't smiled, or ruffled the wet blond curls, or said anything patronising, or tried to ingratiate himself with Mello in any way at all. He had just looked at him thoughtfully for a while, and then handed over one small cube of milk chocolate in a very matter-of-fact manner. And right then and there, Mello knew who he wanted to be when he grew up.

When he gets to his feet a little later, dragging the back of his hand irritably across his face, he is a different person. His childhood ends here and now – and although this is not the rite of passage he had been expecting, still this day marks a turning point. No more games. Mello knows what he has to achieve, and he has a dozen sharp and glittering ideas already forming in his head that will help him get there.

He plucks a bar of Belgian chocolate from the side of his bag and blindly rips it open, enjoying the familiar sound of paper and silver foil tearing beneath his fingers. As he slings the bag over his shoulder and the chocolate touches his tongue, Mello closes his eyes briefly and savours the familiar melting sweetness.

He can do this. He must do this. Failure is not an option.


End file.
